An odd feeling overcame Draco when they Apparated onto the demesne lands of Malfoy manor. They were in one of the more open and intentionally less maintained areas now, a part through which they often meandered but where they rarely lounged. There was a small gazebo by the waterside near a small rock formation behind which the thicker trees began, and ahead of them their home was visible over the more carefully maintained gardens. They could see the side of the hedge maze and when they were so inclined, the two of them often walked through it, his Mother and himself, sometimes chatting but mostly being content in their silence, glad to spend time together without too much nonsense.

Draco really loved his Mother.

From their current location it take about fifteen minutes to reach home and he felt giddy. He had to consciously restrain himself from running.

He wasn't sure if it was part of his relief after the stresses since those stupid dreams had started or if it was perhaps a side effect of the Draught of Peace. He knew its effect could change with intensive use and that taking it continuously was discouraged due to potential long term mood distortions... Regardless, the thought that perhaps he could round off this nonsense tonight and never have to take that crap again made his happiness surge.

His cheeks strained with how widely he was smiling.

"We, too, are glad to have you home again," his Mother said, placing a hand on his back as they walked.

He was grateful for the gesture but he didn't answer — he was elated. It took even more effort to prevent himself from running. He hadn't felt like this in forever! Was this what it took to summon a Patronus?

Then he realised that he knew this feeling, or rather … he recognised it.

From his dream.

His desire to run evaporated and his neck hair stood on end. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his face and he knew he was no longer smiling.
With a quick step he made sure his Mother's hand was no longer on his back.

"Are you all right darling?" His Mother asked concernedly, trying to catch his gaze.

This would be the perfect time to tell her.

He knew that his Mother — Hell, both his parents — loved him very much and would want to help him solve this nonsense, especially if they knew how much it had been affecting him. They would ask questions though. Of course they would ask questions, he expected nothing less of them… but that meant he would have to answer them.

The thought of sharing the details of the dreams — especially with his Father — made a cold sweat break out.

He knew that none of his relatives had ever done anything inappropriate to him, but given the dream, the topic would come up and the thought of having to divulge to a point where he would have to clarify that made him feel so numb that he had to look down to make sure his feet were still on the ground.

So when he would convey what had been happening, probably aided by Legilimency, Veritaserum, or whatever else it took… they would know he had enjoyed it whilst it happened every. single. time.

He would never again be able to look either of them in the eyes.

Draco reached this conclusion within a second, so in response to this Mother's loving question he just calmly nodded.
"Yes, I'm… tired." His voice felt unsteady in his throat but he couldn't feel bad, he knew he had a few hours before the Draught wore off again.

His Mother tried to catch his gaze for a moment longer but then also refocused her gaze ahead.

They walked silently for a minute or so and Draco forced himself to think that he was happy and that the atmosphere between them was entirely normal.

"It has been a long time since you lied to me so blatantly… and even longer since you thought you got away with it." His Mother sounded calm as she spoke, as if she were remarking on the weather.

He hadn't lied because he was exhausted, but he knew what she meant — basically what he had told Crabbe. Lying by omission wasn't any less of a lie, and especially not when it was so blatant.

"I suppose that since you are sixteen years of age, you feel like so much of a 'man' that you are beyond sharing with me. You always were closer to your Father, more keen for his approval… It would pain me if you do not wish to open up to me anymore, that you think I wouldn't care, or that there would be some sort of wedge between us."
She paused to sigh through her nose. "I truly hope that that is not the case."

She stopped to gently touch some flowers and he felt blood rush to his face. He knew for a fact he would be ashamed if he could He wanted to tell her that it wasn't anything like that at all, that she got it all wrong, but then again — that might mean that he would have to tell her what was going on and he wasn't sure whether he would be able to bear it.

Thankfully it didn't take him long to think of a response to her words, especially since it was not a lie. "What makes you think that that's happening?"

She looked at him in a manner he could only interpret as mildly curious.

He looked back at her openly, nothing to hide since the question was genuine and not a diversion.

"The owl you sent me in response to your birthday gift… " She crossed her arms as she spoke, looking over at the house, at the trees… not at him.

He continued to look at her.

She let out a little scoff. Then she said, as if she was reading it out: "Thank you for the books, I shall read them fondly. Kind regards, Draco Malfoy."
Again she looked at him, more curiously this time.

He felt colour rise to his cheeks… yet he could not feel bad.

"Oh! I had so many notes to write, I wasn't paying attention."
It sounded like a ridiculous response even to his own ears and he knew exactly why that was: His tone had no remorse.

There was something in her eyes he couldn't quite place.

In an effort to rectify it he added: "I'm so sorry Mother, I didn't mean to give you such a cold response!" He tried to emphasise it the way he otherwise would, but he knew that he was failing. His heart was pounding in his throat but he didn't feel nervous, guilty, ashamed, scared… Just numb.

She continued to look at him oddly. "Hm. I do wonder what I have done. Perhaps one of these days you will feel inclined to share it with your Father, so I can hear about it from him."

After that, she took another look at him and then set course for the house once more.

He had to force himself to follow her and in that moment he made a decision. "I mean it, I'm sorry! It's just that I took the Draught of Peace and I can't feel it… But I am sorry."

She stopped and turned to him so abruptly that he nearly walked into her. Her eyes were piercing.

"I've… received a poem. A love poem. And I know who it's from, but it's… complicated." There was a lump in his throat and he felt blood rise to his face again. It was true that he hadn't lied to his Mother for a long time until today and he knew he would regret this later.

His Mother looked him up and down and her gaze settled on his eyes. Some of the tension left her shoulders. "This person…" she started, her tone more gentle than before.
"Are they… inappropriate?"

Draco shrugged. She could mean anything from them being a Mudblood to them being a teacher and he wasn't sure how them being 'Crabbe' factored in. "I suppose not in the way you mean it… "
He felt no shame catching her eye but he could tell it was making her uncomfortable in a sense he couldn't recognise. Reading other people's negative emotions was more difficult under the influence of the Draught and since he had started using it, he realised just how much day to day communication was based on empathy. He didn't have a whole lot of that to begin with, so flushing it out left him blind to at least half of people's emotions.

She surprised him by immediately asking: "So they are male?"

Nodding, he sighed. He was grateful for the relief he felt at her response and it was wonderful that this diversion was working. Compared to the flat emptiness he had felt before, this was magnificent.

Her eyes glittered. "And he is a Pureblood wizard?"

Draco wasn't sure what the emphasis on 'wizard' was for and he decided to latch onto it. Perhaps he could get her to laugh. It would be amazing to have her experience something he could process.
"As opposed to a Pureblood house-elf? Why yes, yes he is."

When her laughter rang through the gardens he could feel his heart swell. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He knew nothing had been solved, but pretending he had feelings for Crabbe was a great way to keep his parents from the truth without pushing them away.
The relief in her eyes made him feel confirmed and her hand on his shoulder even more so.
"Oh darling, for a moment I feared there was something far more… let's say 'unexpected' the matter."

Draco cocked his head at this. "You expected me to receive a love poem from a boy?"

"Well, a strapping young man such as yourself is bound to have some admirers… And since you never mentioned a girl in this sense I assumed you must be differently inclined."

Her assumption didn't sit right with him. It was true that he didn't care for girls but he didn't care for boys, either. In his dream he — no, Beth did, but he himself did not.
Would his lack of interest be an issue?

The lump in his throat doubled in size and he tried to push the thought away. It wasn't going to be relevant any time soon and he could probably fake it if needed.

She touched his hair and he looked blankly back at her as she continued.
"It's all the same to me dear, please do not be concerned. I mean, I know we haven't exactly encouraged homosexual relationships but I always made a point not to discourage them either… I would certainly never want you to have to drown your feelings for fear of judgement from us."

Her smiling face and — Draco supposed— 'kind' words warmed him a little. He didn't feel anywhere near as elated as he had when they had just arrived, but it was still nice to feel anything at all. The relief over feeling good was a good feeling in itself, and gradually the emptiness seemed to fade.

"To be frank, I've never been opposed to the thought of being with women myself. I'm sure it won't surprise you that your Father isn't quite as open minded about these matters… But it's all right darling. It will be all right."
Her smile, her hand in his hair, her comforting words…. The contrast with how she had interacted with him before was so stark that he thought his heart would burst.

Of course that was the moment he realised that all her tenderness was misplaced and that he was still lying to her. All feelings disappeared so suddenly that it was as if he had been stabbed with an icicle.

"Thank you," he said, forcing one corner in his mouth up in lieu of a smile. He was empty again.

She clicked her tongue in a pitying tone and extended her arms. When they hugged, he knew for a fact that he hated himself.

Draco had told his Mother he would rather not talk about it anymore and she had respected that. She had also emphasised that she would not broach the topic to his Father, which Draco almost believed.

During the remainder of the walk they spoke about the flowers they passed, and they agreed that they needed to get him some more clothes — bespoke, of course. Fleetingly they mentioned what he would like to do after Hogwarts, and Draco suggested he might be interested in studying Magical Theory if he could. They did not linger on the topic, they generally didn't get deeply into a subject amongst themselves when they could expect that his Father would also be interested. This was for efficiency as much as Draco considered it a precaution. It was best not to trust his Mother to do what was best for him since no matter her intentions, she usually ended up involving his Father and sabotaging him. The incident which taught him that lesson came to mind…

He had gushed to his Mother about how fascinating thestrals were and how wonderful it would be to fly on an animal he couldn't see, to kill a Muggle in a crowded place and suddenly have this amazing bat-horse visible beneath him…. And when he had carefully prepared his plea to his Father, that he was now the ripe old age of thirteen and therefore old enough to have actual responsibility of his own, to show he was a man and that it might be nice to consider perhaps perchance to think about weighing the options to please maybe acquire — ….
His Father, not looking up from The Daily Prophet, had interrupted him in his most dismissive tone. "You will not have a thestral."

Draco's betrayed outrage at the time had ensured situations like these would not occur again. This however also meant that he never felt he could freely chat to her about things that truly mattered to him.

Perhaps, if it wasn't for that, he might have told her about the dream.

_

As soon as they reached the house, Draco retreated to his room to unpack. During the chat with his Mother his mind had blipped out for the most part and it still hadn't come back, so trying to think at all was next to impossible. Did he really have so many negative feelings that the draught left him with nothing to feel at all? Or was this something else? His thoughts were impossible to pursue and when he tried to, it gave him the same sense as staring at text without reading, like he had done so often in the past few weeks.

Unpacking took little time since he was naturally organised and he quickly found himself indecisive and restless. Nothing seemed worthwhile.
Of course he had to find out about the dream, but since his brain didn't work it was hard to decide how to go about it. He considered trying to find the portrait of his ancestor and confront it, but he quickly dismissed that idea. He knew he should prepare some questions for it and there was no chance he could do that when he couldn't think straight.

No, it would be better to visit the room.
Surely if there was a huge dangerous trap in one of their rooms he would have heard about it. Besides, his Mother was at home with him and his Father would be back soon, in addition to the fact that he was awake — in a bit of a daze, alright, but not sleeping, so he should be fine.

Draco's heartbeat physically shook him as he went down the corridor on the second floor, to the left of the stairs. His wand was at the ready, and he walked slowly but steadily.
When he was younger, he used to run around here. But none of the rooms they used in their daily life were on this floor so he hadn't been here in a while.

The portraits he passed were familiar to him but the memory of the dream had estranged them. Very few of them could speak and none of them did so now… He had never felt this watched before.

Something inside of him was ecstatic to be here and wanted to skip and run towards the room, though it was clearly disconnected from the rest of him. It didn't make him think different or enthused thoughts, it was just a mood he noticed, not unlike noticing the weather.

It made his stomach lurch.

Perhaps without the draught, his own emotions would have been a better counterweight to whatever Beth-nonsense was invading his mind… he could try to skip the dose later and see how he fared for a half hour or so.

Hell, if he did this properly, he might never need to take it again.

Before he'd realised it, he had reached The Door.
It was dark mahogany with two carved decorative panels and a brass handle, not unlike most doors in the manor, yet it had a presence unlike any other. It seemed to be radiating anticipation and Draco had to consciously force himself to take the last two steps towards it. There was a promise there, in the wood, and the air felt thick and velvety.

His heartbeat was punching the lump in his throat and his mouth went dry.

Every night for the past few weeks had been spent in this room.

A small whimper escaped him as he managed to raise his hand and it hovered there, above the handle, quivering as he tried to strengthen his resolve.
His knees felt weak and for a moment he thought he'd wet himself.

Despite his body sending him all the terror signals, he still did not feel negative emotions and the depravity of that made him grimace.

He readjusted his grip on his wand and opened the door, physiological warning bells be damned.

Silently it swung open.

The room inside was bright, with white dust-covers on the furniture. The three windows offered a splendid view of the gardens, facing the opposite direction of where he had walked with his Mother earlier. There was no sound but the silence seemed to buzz in his ears as he crossed the threshold, wand at the ready.

Nobody seemed to be here…

Silently he charmed the dust-covers off the furniture, unwilling to touch anything until he was certain there wasn't something suspicious lurking underneath.

There was the bed, the dresser, a writing desk, the mirror he had seen before, a chaise longue and a side table he did not recognise from his dream, and… that was it.

The writing desk didn't seem to have anything of relevance in it — some quills and a dried up inkwell, some parchment with nothing written on it, no drawers with double bottoms or other hidden sections he could discover. Nothing underneath the bed, no hidden areas in the dresser, the mirror didn't seem to have any secrets either… The floor had no hatches, loose boards or hidden diaries or anything of the sort, just dust. Checking the walls resulted only in a disgruntled spider and finally, in a fit of genius, he checked the ceiling too — there was nothing to be found.

This was an ordinary room.

Relief flooded him with such intensity that his eyes watered. He hadn't realised how tense he had been until now. With a big sigh he sat down on the bed. It creaked a little, but not uncomfortably so. Actually it was quite a charming sound… he bounced a bit and lay down, looking up at the ceiling.

Consciously he relaxed his jaw and parted his lips for a bit. All those internal alarms that had been vying for his attention earlier had gone and being able to relax felt wonderful.

This was a nice room, actually. It was as big as his current one, had a nice view… The only things missing were a book case and a chair, but he could get those from his current room. There was a bathroom nearby that nobody really used anymore and he would basically have the entire hallway to himself.

Reinvigorated he got up and marched out of the room. It would be about dinner time anyway. As he walked out, the hair in the back of his neck stood on end.

There was probably a draft.